Scaring Crows (4 page)

‘But Shackleton said ...' Mike objected.

‘Whatever Shackleton said they were disturbed here before they went out.'

Mike scowled at her. ‘Are you trying to say it was the killer who let the cows out?'

‘Maybe.'

‘Then why?
They
can't give him an alibi.'

‘I don't know, Mike. I'm simply thinking. That's all. It could have been to destroy footprints – or tyre marks – or something. But I am certain that if they'd both started to lead the cows in from the field to be milked they wouldn't have come back, leaving the cows to wander around. And if Jack had come back he wouldn't have gone upstairs unless he was going to fetch something. Let's just have a look at...' She picked up the boot that paired with the one on the dead man's foot. It was dusty and dry. ‘As I thought,' she said. ‘He hasn't worn them this morning.'

‘The weather's hot,' Mike pointed out.

‘Have you had a look out there in the lane? Cow pats everywhere. And a farmer wouldn't pick his way around them. He'd walk straight through.' She picked up another, larger pair. ‘And I assume these are Jack's.' She turned them over. ‘He hasn't been out this morning either. So our killer ...' She frowned. ‘Why he let the cows out of the field is beyond me —' She was silent for just a moment. ‘What else did Shackleton say?'

‘Only that the cows are usually back in the fields by the time he gets here at ten.'

‘This Shackleton, Mike. He would have known the family well.'

‘What are you trying to say?'

‘Nothing. I'm just collecting facts. Did he know straight away that something was wrong?'

‘Pretty soon. At first he just thought they were a bit late with the milking, that they'd overslept.'

‘Was that usual?'

Korpanski shook his head. ‘But he thought it all the same.'

‘So when was he sure something was up?'

‘Almost at once. As soon as he turned into the drive. The cows were causing havoc, wandering around the yard. They hadn't been milked. So he comes round to the door to find out what's going on. And he sees this.'

‘Then what did he do?'

‘Backs the tanker all the way down the lane to the neighbouring farm and telephones us.'

A swift vision of the milk tanker blocking the lane reinforced the story.

She glanced at a green plastic phone standing on the window sill. ‘He didn't use this phone?'

‘Nope. I can understand the man. He panicked. He just wanted to get the hell out of here. And I can't blame him.'

She looked at him sharply. ‘He claims he didn't enter the room?'

‘No. He could see it all from the doorway.'

She thought for a moment then startled Mike by asking, ‘What's happened to them?'

‘Sorry?'

‘The cows, Mike. I didn't see the cows when we drove up.'

‘Oh. The next door farmer came back with him and offered to do the milking.'

‘A good neighbourly act.'

‘Yeah. A good neighbourly act.' But they were both police officers. Nothing could be taken at face value. Korpanski's eyes darkened.

She pressed her point home. ‘Someone who knew the door would be open, that the gun was not kept in a locked cabinet, someone who had the opportunity to make sure it would be loaded. Someone who knew the doors would be unlocked and where both father and son would be at that time of the morning.'

‘But why?'

‘I don't know. And in my book, blasting a couple of farmers with their own shotgun doesn't exactly comply with the Neighbourhood Watch scheme.'

He picked up on that. ‘Neighbourhood Watch,' he said. ‘What exactly are you suggesting?'

There was an angry light in her blue eyes. ‘I'll be looking at the locals first,' she said slowly. ‘Shackleton knew about the gun. The point is who else knew and who loaded it because don't try and tell me person or persons unknown arrives at the porch, picks up the gun, presses the trigger and, Hey Presto, what a bit of luck, it's even loaded. And even I can't believe the Summers were quite so careless as to leave a
loaded
gun lying around in an unlocked porch. No. I think it's more likely that someone primed the gun. But why?'

The two bodies lay motionless. ‘Look at them, Mike. From the way they're dressed I'd bet they had nothing more exciting planned than a morning in the cowshed. So why slaughter them? Robbery? A thief could have slipped in at any time and pinched stuff without going to the bother of murder. So why? And who? And because I have to start somewhere we'll start next door with our friendly neighbour. How far away is he?'

Mike relaxed. He preferred facts to questions. ‘About half a mile. Three fields away. The farm's called Fallowfield.'

‘And this friendly neighbour's name?'

‘Pinkers. Martin Pinkers.'

‘Right ...' She thought for a moment. ‘We'll start there and gradually widen our circle. We'll need a good map of the area. I want to know everyone who lives within a two-mile radius. If we get no joy the circle grows.'

‘From what I know so far a two-mile radius covers about four homesteads.'

‘Good. That makes the job distinctly easier.' She gave Mike one of her wide smiles. ‘I suppose it's a bit soon to know anything about bad blood between the two farms?'

‘Yeah. Far too soon.'

She moved back into the bright, brave colours of the glazed porch and studied the Victorian panels of red and blue glass.

‘The SOCOs might get some decent prints off this as well as the gun but I'm not too optimistic. Uugh.' She gave an expression of disgust as a fly landed on her hand. ‘Where's that bloody flyspray?'

Like the genie of the lamp PC Scott appeared in the doorway and gave a prolonged squirt. She coughed. ‘Let's go outside.'

The heat met them as they stopped on top of the three steps and surveyed the country, the wide expanse of fields, huge trees, cows sheltering beneath them, swallows darting in and out of the barns. Straight across the field, to the right, she could see dark-blue slates through the trees. That must be Fallowfield.

The silence was almost tangible, the air crystal clear and sharp with the scent of pure oxygen. This bright, pretty scene seemed miles away from the dark claustrophobia behind them. Murder seemed too ugly an act for this perfect summer's day. For a moment she closed her eyes in order to blot it out, leaving the scented tranquillity to imprint on her mind. It failed.

Even with her eyes tightly shut she could still see the two bodies.

It must have been no more than a second later that she felt a tap on her shoulder. ‘Excuse me.' It was a solid, country burr. ‘Don't mind me asking but are you the lady detective they said was in charge?'

He was tall with curly brown hair, a pale, sweating face and troubled brown eyes.

‘Yes, I'm Detective Inspector Piercy.'

‘Dave.' He introduced himself. ‘Dave Shackleton. It was me that found them.' He hesitated before asking quietly, ‘Was it Jack? Did he finally flip?'

Confused she managed, ‘We can't say, yet.' Then curiosity got the better of her caution. ‘You think Jack murdered his father before turning the gun on himself?'

The eyes were far too honest. ‘Well, what else?'

‘Why would he kill his father? Had they quarrelled?'

Shackleton blinked and looked even more troubled. ‘No, but I thought—' he said awkwardly.

‘It isn't what we think, Mr Shackleton.' She didn't know whether she was consoling him or not, telling him something he wanted to hear.

‘We think both were shot by a third person.'

Shackleton looked stunned. ‘You mean ...?'

She eyed him curiously. ‘You knew them well?'

He nodded jerkily.

‘Then you've had a shock.'

Shackleton's eyes were bright. ‘Known the family for years, I have. I just can't believe ...' He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Of all the families I know,' he said softly, ‘I would have sworn they would have ended their lives peacefully. Not like this.' An expression of misery descended on his face like fog. ‘If you say it wasn't Jack ...' he began.

‘It wasn't Jack. It was someone else.'

Shackleton gave a start. ‘Ruthie,' he said hoarsely. ‘Is Ruthie in there too?'

Joanna felt chilled. ‘There was a daughter?'

‘Yes.' There was a desperate tone in his voice. ‘Little Ruthie.'

And Joanna made a natural assumption. ‘She was younger than her brother?'

‘No,' Shackleton said impatiently as though the girl's age was the least important thing about her. ‘She was five years older than Jack.' His eyes were focused fearfully on the door behind her. ‘Is she in there too?' He switched his gaze back to Joanna. ‘Have you found Ruthie in there?' There was a desperate, almost violent note in the tanker driver's voice.

‘No,' she said dully.

But now she had another, more urgent charge. Forget Fallowfield. There might be a third body, lying somewhere around the farm, in the barns or upstairs.

Shackleton was shaking. His muddy-brown eyes fixed on Joanna and he knew exactly what she feared. ‘You think she's in there too, don't you?'

‘A constable's already checked upstairs.'

There was an aura of deep grief around Shackleton. He had been shocked by the two bodies. But at the talk of Ruthie that had changed to this abject, miserable, uncontrolled grief. It didn't take much imagination to connect the two.

‘We'll conduct a thorough search of both the house and the barns,' she said.

‘Do you want me to help?'

She shook her head, almost ashamed of her suspicions. ‘The police prefer to do it themselves. Don't worry, please. If Ruthie is here we'll find her.'

Shackleton looked away. ‘So he got her too.'

‘He?'

‘It's just a way of sayin' it.' His voice was choked with emotion. ‘You can't imagine a woman doin' that.' The shock had made his face so white she thought he might faint. ‘Not that.'

‘I'm afraid,' Joanna said wearily, ‘there's nothing in there that excludes a woman.
Anyone
could have pulled that trigger, Mr Shackleton. Anyone.'

They stood in silence for a moment, then Joanna asked, ‘The three of them lived here?'

He nodded. ‘Yeah. Old Aaron, Ruthie and Jack.'

‘No other women?'

Shackleton shook his head. ‘No, Mrs Summers had cancer. She died when Jack was just a baby. He were only ten months old. Ruthie brought him up.' He made an attempt at a smile. ‘Proper little mother she were to him.' But then some old memory must have moved through his mind and his face assumed a pained expression. It seemed to Joanna that for some reason this recollection compelled him to defend Ruthie. ‘She really did love Jack. She did. I know. She was devoted to her brother. People can say what they like.'

And Joanna's mind was instantly on the alert, as though pricked by a pin. Shackleton stayed silent for a long time.

‘Do you have any idea who could have done this, Mr Shackleton? Had the family any enemies?'

Dave Shackleton shook his head. ‘Must have been a robbery that went wrong.'

But Joanna didn't think so. ‘We will, of course, be searching the house but so far we have seen no sign of ...' She paused. In this house of open doors there would have been no need for forced entry. Anyone could have simply walked in.

Shackleton must have picked up on her train of thoughts. ‘Exactly,' he said. ‘No one would have needed to break a window or force a lock. It was so easy. Like I told the big guy.'

‘Detective Sergeant Korpanski.'

‘You could walk into Hardacre any time of the day or night.' He looked away, embarrassed.

‘That makes it all the more difficult for us to work out who did.' Joanna hesitated before plunging in with her next question. ‘Tell me, Mr Shackleton. How did they get on with their neighbours?'

There was a movement in front of them, a snorting and bellowing. A herd of cows was careering along the lane towards them. She watched them pass. Behind them a thin, bent figure dressed in navy dungarees was slapping the cows backsides, forcing them into a brisk trot. For that one moment she had a vision of Aaron and Jack Summers doing the identical manoeuvre.

The farmer waved a hand as he passed.

Shackleton nodded briefly and Joanna took up her cue. ‘So that's Martin Pinkers?'

‘That's him,' he said, looking uncomfortable. ‘He offered to do the milkin' and ...' He scratched his head. ‘They needed doin'. They was goin' wild.' He eyed Joanna dubiously. ‘It might seem hard and uncaring gettin' him over here but they need the milk takin' off. Cows' udders fill murder or no murder. Besides Aaron would have wanted it.'

Hard and uncaring getting him over here. Had she imagined the emphasis on the
him
?

And if she had not imagined it what vague hostility lay behind it?

She glanced again at the thin man with his hard, boney face and then turned her attention back to Shackleton, knowing one thing was for sure. Shackleton would provide no more answers now. He flushed, hunched his shoulders and dug his hands deep into his pockets, staring at a point somewhere behind her right shoulder, leaving her to watch the diminishing figure of the neighbouring farmer.

Hostility there may have been. But it had still been to Fallowfield, Martin Pinkers' farm, that Shackleton had headed when he had discovered the bodies.

Yet looking at the wide, empty panorama where else could he have gone?

Something else had struck Joanna. He had not mentioned Ruthie Summers until she had started questioning him about the family. But if Ruthie had been the female pivot of the farm what would be more natural than that she would have been standing in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, when the assailant had blasted her father and brother with the gun? And if Ruthie had been the one to call them in from the yard what would be more natural than that they would come?
So where was she now
?